Sickled Dreams
by Chronos Keeper
Summary: Yes, strange title. But it has a ring, I thought. This deals with Eckhardt before he became the Black Alchemist proper, my take on how he might have met the Nephilim


Sinking onto the freezing matress, he could feel all of his joints creaking from the cold and from being held still so long.

Old. He was getting old- the sinking feeling setteled with the softeness of sand... and yet- he was too tired to be unnerved fully. He realized he was more recognizing the fact than caring about it.

It didn't matter. Little did, anymore- even remembering that his body needed some amount of sustenance, no matter how little. Again, he was reminded that his body was withering and aging, as he recalled, with a small twinge of self disgust and horror, how he had gagged on the bread and cheese had had tried to absent mindledly eat as he flipped through his notes from the past year, attempting to pick out a thread that he thought he saw recurring in them. He shifted, feeling the feather under him pack and settle, remembering how he had actually spat the food on the floor to avoid choking or vomiting it later.

He didn't even remember having fallen asleep, but reckoned he must have when he heard them- they were all

whispering

Whispering at him, things he couldn't understand- or didn't want to. They hissed and sighed with the dusty voices of the dead, and they had as little inhibition. It was always the same. They always tounched him, lightly, with fingertips that felt like spearpoints, stroking his skin with chill fingers. Or, what he thought were fingers. They had the same dexterity, but they didn't have the same texture that skin did- it was dry and chill, and felt like parchment. One finger trailed across his nipple, and he jerked, a jolt of fear arcing through him, and then realized his range of movement was hampered.

They were _holding_ him.

Their hands clasped his limbs like knotty manacles to his bed, barely touching him, but gripping when he struggled.

So he didn't. It was his experience that led him to relax, however unwillingly, and allow this dream to take whatever course it would.

Oh, God he only hoped in was a dream.

When the first wash of sand-scented breath heated the right side of his face, a thin coil of doubt snaked around his chest. When a tongue followed, delicately touching his cheek, the world solidified almost absurdly.

Something was there, in the velvety darkness of his room. No, not just something... several things.

And they were all speaking, whispering with the voices that he had sworn he had heard during long hours pouring over his work- and put down to an aging mind and hours not meant to be kept by a lone person.

_ We will keep you_

_  
free _

_ your soul, stronger _

_ than all others we have known before _

_ will become _

_ (free, empowered, beyond...)_

He didn't hear them- he _felt_ them, their voices. It was less of speech and more of thought, cresting his mind with a gentling touch. It had no emotion, but a force, seeping into his body, and strangely enough... into his soul. At any other time, he would have scoffed at this idea, and yet, he knew better than to.

Breathing- he was breathing so deeply and so quickly that he could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

And yet, all this power, it was undirected- it was simply radiating from these beings, and by merit of being their presence alone, he was riding the power of their essence. And even as this dimly occured to him, he knew that he had to summon caution, before he became so intoxicated with this power that he would never have the urge to release it.

In the darkness of his room that was both full of energy and yet dishearteningly empty as he saw, he let out a shuddering cough, attempting to ride down this power. It was so constant, it didn't even seem to have a purpose, only a will to-

_power, all we shall give to thee, _

_ SAVE US _

_ and we shall hear thee_

Again, he let out a series of coughs, sounding feeble in the silence of the room to the low, siliblant droining in his head.

"What do you want?" The sound of his own voice was vaguely startling, rasping against the stillness. And for a terrifying second, the voices all stopped, as if in one breath, they were considering his words.

They didn't come again that night, though Pieter van Eckhardt waited, his entire body stilled for the slightest indication that the sentience had returned. By dawn, he had sunk into something of a loose coma, his mind having gone as still as the room around him- a conduit.

He waited.

And they came.


End file.
